


bee for the honey

by tribunal



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Home Invasion, Knifeplay, Menstruation Kink, Pre-Canon, Stalking, Vaginal Fingering, Yoga, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: Maybe they're late to the class, just as new to the world of body-bending disguised as yoga as you, wearing clothing ill-suited to pant and puff and find new painful muscle groups in. But they're not going to the door, not poking their head in as sheepishly as a few of the earlier stragglers did.No, this person's just…there to observe, you suppose, which is the pisser about gyms like this, where the walls are all glass and the sense behind the design is nil.You think your pelvis is digging a hole in your spleen.You hope this voyeur's paid to watch this show.Wherein a long-suffering reader-character gets their innards stirred, not shaken, by our resident stalker.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Reader, Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/You, Ghostface (Scream)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 230





	bee for the honey

**Author's Note:**

> For FancyLadySnackCake's Discord challenge: write a 3k piece (featuring smut, which I don't have much practice publishing) featuring Dead By Daylight's incarnation of Ghostface.
> 
> I...admittedly, could've went on longer. ~~Ah, well. Next time?~~

You hadn't known the human body could contort into this position, and, frankly, you wish you could go back to a time before now, back to being blissfully unawares. Back bent backwards nearly double, head near-scraping the mat, you cannot imagine you're a picture of effortless grace, not anything to actively strive for. The instructor's movements are much more natural, arms rising in a half arc to curl curiously around his head, a self-made halo. He reminds you all to "be sure to breathe", and you're left wondering how in the hell you're supposed to focus on the inhale-exhale when it feels like your lungs might be shoved down into your gut. _People willingly do this? People willing fork over their money to some slinky know it all with a gods-damned **man bun**?_

You just might hate this man. Genuine hate this time, not just righteous indignation at having been forced to flex your body in indecipherable shapes at the whims of a man you're not altogether certain isn't certifiably insane (wouldn't you have to be to be so damnably plucky while being so unnaturally bendy?).

But the class is free, and that's your favorite price, hands down. Besides, if you gave up halfway through, you know for a fact your muscles with seize up, useless and fitful with screeching pangs of pain. You'd end up bed-bound, calling into work the next day and cursing your horrible, horrible luck.

Too stubborn to give in anyways, despite all the nasty names you're calling this self-proclaimed yogi in your head.

"Hold that pose for ten seconds more, inhaling and exhaling all the while. Remember to find your center in this position-" Your _center_ is currently trying to claw its way up your throat, "Visualize your limbs elongating, as though you are a tree whose branches are growing, growing." Easy ask, that. Your limbs feel like they're pulled past their limits, anyways. "While your feet are the roots, planted firmly on the ground, giving you balance." He pauses here, inhales deeply, following his own advice. "In doing this, you are finding balance."

Yeah, okay, lie to yourself, but he doesn't have to lie to you.

It's between a modified Warrior pose and a single-legged Downward-Facing Dog that you notice them, some willowy figure in the periphery of your vision, idling around the glass enclosure of the room. Their hands are stuffed in their jean pockets, scarf warping their lower face from view while hoodie makes the rest of their features nigh-indecipherable. Must've came from outside, where blustery winds threatened to lift your modest yoga bag up, up, and away. Too cold by half.

Maybe they're late to the class, just as new to the world of body-bending disguised as yoga as you, wearing clothing ill-suited to pant and puff and find new painful muscle groups in. But they're not going to the door, not poking their head in as sheepishly as a few of the earlier stragglers did.

No, this person's just…there to observe, you suppose, which is the pisser about gyms like this, where the walls are all glass and the sense behind the design is nil.

You think your pelvis is digging a hole in your spleen.

You hope this voyeur's paid to watch this show.

Scoffing, your gaze returns to the instructor's movements, body feeling as though it's undergoing the worst bits of lag in a struggle to keep up. He's guiding the class to yet another painful position, and--when you glance back over--your little voyeur is gone.

* * *

Restlessness comes easily to you, as simple as breathing. Nights spent wondering if your melatonin will kick in before your alarm goes off, a race against your own stubborn insomnia to see if the end result is you being naturally rested in time for work or if you'll be chugging energy shots in a desperate attempt to feel something akin to sanity. If any of your co-workers have noticed the dull gleam to dead eyes, they've very politely said nothing about it, bless them.

It's a pleasant surprise--entirely welcome and wholly confounding--when your muscles, relaxed and stretched out from your recent forays into yoga, flop uselessly as soon as your back touches the comforter lying haphazardly on your bed. You're in that half-dreamy state of boneless exhaustion, limbs twitching with pseudo-effort to swing your body in a more comfortable position. Even the cramps spiking your abdomen don't feel so painful, the-

Oh. Right. Right. If anything, that explains away the bloating and sudden willingness to sleep. Probably the only week out of the month you get more than 3 hours of disjointed sleep at a time. It's a catch-22, though, ending with you groggy-eyed and rising, trading out not enough sleep for too much. You tip past restful straight into bleariness, needing just as much coffee to be half as useful.

Two pain pills and an overnight pad more akin to a diaper later, you're toddling precariously back to your bed, wincing all the while, falling into slumber.

When you wake again, it's to the blackness of pitch--your head crammed in your pillow--the faint light from the moon outside your bedroom window letting you blink twice, groggily, coming to your senses, shifting your body underneath piled-on comforters.

There is the click of a camera shutter, the whirring of a lens, another click. You're fully awake now, grogginess dissipating into fine mist at the sudden feeling of _weight_ atop you. A scream builds in your throat, aborted by the feeling of leather-clad digits stuffing themselves in your open mouth. The taste of aged copper pinches your tongue, your eyes darting for a face even as drool weeps from the corners of your mouth.

A mask, stark with drooping holes, mouth wide open in a parody of an Edvard Munch painting. Head cocked to the side, one hand tilting the camera mockingly--shaking it at you before dropping it to your carpeted flooring-- the other darting forward (oh, you need to be moving, need to try and get free, whether this is reality or paralysis demon) to grip your own now-jumping fists, wrists bound securely under the firmness of this creature's grip.

"Ohhh, no, no, no, no no." The voice is unfamiliar, male, deep and husky with an accent you cannot place, won't bother to. It's not someone you recognize, not someone pulling a weird, horrible prank on you in the dead of night. And you're not asleep, not settling in that half-dreamlike state where everything is so surreal.

No, this is real, painful and brilliant, and you're _terrified_.

Your struggles renew in earnest, legs trapped underneath his own thighs, where they've settled their weight atop you. But it doesn't stop your futile kicks, doesn't stop your wrists from rubbing against one another in this assailant's grip. Your teeth come down hard on the digits in your mouth, biting, _biting, biting_ down on rust-tasting leather, finding no purchase. Are those cornered howls coming from you? Of course they are, you won't go down without a fight burning your lungs out.

The assailant sighs, sounding--for all the world--somehow _irritated_ with this turn of events. Well, you're not fucking sorry you won't lie down and be killed. If he wanted an easy home invasion, he tried the _wrong one_. "Pretend you're smart for a bit, will you?" Snide voice made partially muffled through the mask. He pops those fingers from your mouth, eyes the spit slicking those dark leather gloves. Sound builds in the back of his throat before that free hand curls around your neck, squeezing in a warning. _ _Don't scream_ , though it builds anyways, legitimate and actual fear swirling, skyrocketing in the pit of your stomach. _This man is going to kill you. You're going to die?_

Fear-sweat beads your brow, mind whirling as he manages to bind your wrists together: zip ties that pinch the skin of your wrists, dare to cut slivers of skin when you move even only faintly. Looped by a kerchief summoned from beneath a glove to secure you tightly to your own headboard. Humiliating.

You move to buck up, giving him the fight of his life even with one of his hands now free, but he _tuts_ in the back of his throat, freed fingers going to the black mass of a cloak he's draped himself in, pulling out the sleek sheen of a well-honed blade and brandishing it, visual made more frightening by the moon's dull luminescence beading through threadbare curtains.

Hand from your throat, knife pressed snugly to it instead. "Can't play along? What's the matter, not into roleplay?" His voice is lilting, jovial even as he's invaded your home, pressed a blade against your skin. His inhalation is shaky above you, a tremble in his thighs as the knife pinches more firmly against your skin, slipping to draw a beading blot of blood that his mask points towards, likely tracking it hungrily with that shrouded gaze. His legs twitch above yours, a shifting movement you've seen often enough to know the alleviation of pressure to be exactly that.

This man's getting hard at the sight of your blood.

"Not roleplay, then." He repeats, tone shifting to something still light, tad hungry. "Not roleplay, but we've got other games." This time, your mouth opens to spit, globule trailing a slick shine down that mask. "Oh! Ohohohoho, so you've got _spunk, don't you_?"

He leans in further, one hand pinning your shoulder to the bed while the other trails that knife down to the oversized shirt you've tossed on to find fitful sleep in. It parts it readily, slipping past your breasts and pulling down to your stomach, shirt in two parts on either side of you. "You're about to have a little more~"

Fear turns cold in the pit of your bared stomach, legs long since fallen asleep, though you try and try to wriggle them to wakefulness beneath your attacker's body. "Don't act coy," He continues on, talking, always talking. "I saw the way you looked at me. Or do you Downward Dog every man you see?"

The man from yoga class, the one that watched outside for its entirety, shrouded eyes feeling as though they were ripping you from your modest outfit. You _knew_ there was something off-putting about him, could feel it in every fiber of your body. But you ignored it, packed your bag and booked it home, gave your aches and pains more thought than the man you inadvertently led to your abode. Rookie mistake, one you're only wishing you'll be alive long enough to avoid making again.

Bitterness flecks each word as you force them out, throat still suffused in pain from his not-so-tender attentions. "Don't even fucking _know_ you, dude."

His knife goes to your face, tracing each feature with a gentleness edging this side of affectionate. "But I~ Know~ You~." Singsong, even as his knife-wielding hand falls to your side, blade finding its way back into his myriad of black. Leather-clad fingertips slither their way to your modest underwear, the granny panties you use only for this time of the month and you're hoping against hope that it'll deter him, stop him from what you're certain he's planning. Get him talking, he seems to like the own droning sound of his voice.

"You know me? I've never seen you in my life, I'd bet."

He snorts, the sound muffled behind the eerie-mask, your spit still oozing a fine trail down it. "'Cuz I'm good at what I do. If you'd seen me before, kinda takes the anonymity out of it. Kinda…not the point of this, duh." Like you're thick as shit, or something.

But his fingers slip past your underwear and your brain short-circuits, wires crossing and horror mixing unpleasantly with shocked arousal. "The fu-"

"Mmmm, how about that?" Even in the low light, you can see his fingers come back slick with the red illness of your monthly flow. "All for me, sweetness? Aw, you shouldn't have!" The ichor stains the leather of his gloves, some half-shredded chunk of uterine lining dripping down the length of his index finger. His next inhalation is breathy, a shuddery laugh as he pops those fingers back inside you, mask severely pointed downwards, interested in the show below.

The scream punches out of you quickly, a sharp peal more wounded than angry. Your hands jerk in their makeshift bonds, fury strengthening your voice. "S-Stop, what the **fuck** is wrong with you? Stop it, don't fucking touch me!" Your wrists are likely bleeding by now, legs going numb from the continued pressure of his atop you, cunt clenching traitorously around his invading fingers, filling you with equal parts disgust and arousal. Shame's a close third, especially when he swirls his fingers--for all intents and purposes feeling like he's trying to _scoop you out_ \--and you can't quite suppress the whine building from deep within your chest. _Shit._

"Ah, come on~" More spit pools in your mouth, but the cruel addition of a third finger makes you choke on it, throat spasming in maligned pain. You'd rather choke than admit to enjoying this, rather suffocate on your own spittle than give voice to the pleasure brewing faithlessly in the sick core of you.

"Cute of you to lie like that, like I don't know you. But that's alright, sweetness," His mask gets closer to where you're weeping for him, blood and your own fluids mixing together in a pink mess, making him huff out in hunger. God, this is sickening, but there is something heady about this whole situation, the cover of night making it more palatable, more unreal, something you won't have to look head-on in the harsh, too honest, light of the morning.

The more enraptured this man is with your cunt, the more you're determined you are that you'll actually see tomorrow; something about your bleeding nethers has him entranced. "I'll make you remember."

With that being your only warning, his movements become ruthless, fingers pistoning with wild abandon, the sickening squelch of your own drooling pussy reaching your ears, making you want to retch even as he goes wilder for it, leaning wickedly over you, mask tilting between what's going on below and your pinched-up features, still torn between enjoyment and horror.

Last fuck you may have in the brevity of your life, it'll be gone in the morning, for better or for worse. Might as well tuck in and leech out whatever enjoyment you can. If he slits your throat with that cruel knife after engorging himself on your bloody meat, he'll be doing you a kindness.

As though he's heard your thoughts, his voice comes from behind that mask, more growl than tone. "Wish you knew how bad I wanted to eat you out, sweetness." Lighter now, though his assault on your nethers hasn't lessened in any way. "Some other time." Said as an afterthought, the quiet confession of a man too caught up for smart decisions. Hope lights along your spine, not lessening that sick thrill any, much to your own aggrieved chagrin.

Your voice is even weak to your own ears, response breathy. "H-Hah…as if I'd ever let you." _Shit._ That rings false, no matter how much determination you attempted to put into it, it just sounds like desperation. Whatever he says next bleeds into background noise, your ass bunching up underneath him in some attempt to leech further friction from him. So close…If he stops those disgusting movements, you just might actually snap, eyes rolling back as some whimpering babble escapes you. He sucks in a greedy inhalation above you, no rhyme nor reason to his movements now, just the frenzied rubbings of a man long denied, thumb mashing Morse code in your clit.

Your orgasm is far from quiet, the sound ripping from you as though forced from your lungs, leaving your throat raw. The ripping sound doesn't occur to you, vision tinged in white and fog settling nicely over your ears. No more cramps, so you suppose this was good for something.

But when your hands freely rest against your sides, giving your arms some much-needed relief, alertness tugs at you.

Your arms are free?

_Your hands are free._

Seeing some foggy realization fight for acknowledgement, your mystery man produces that knife once more, waggling it as though you're to be scolded. You don't currently have it in you to say "fuck you", but, hey, the eye roll's gotta be enough.

"Round two later? You name the time, dollface. Keep the yoga pants on." Christ, he's annoying, make him shut the fuck up. Next time? There shouldn't have even been a _this time_ , but you're at least enchanted by the complete and utter lack of cramps. Probably looks like a crime scene down there, you'll have to wash the sheets.

Shakily, one hand goes down, knowing his eyes are watching every movement. Still seeping, though it's tinged more pink with the headiness of your recent orgasm. Well, la-di-fucking-da. Fingers come back thick with it, sticky. You lean just a bit more forward, smearing his mask again. One side spit, the other side blood. Kind of a gruesome way to mark territory, to let anyone know this terror is yours and yours alone. Your burden.

"Shut up." You smirk. "Something to remember me by. You'll never know when you'll see me again." The unspoken fact is that this is backwards thinking, that it's _you_ that'll never know when you'll see him again, that he's just gonna keep tabs on you for his own bizarre amusements. How you'd gotten into this situation is anyone's guess, blame that manbunned yoga instructor.

Whatever hackneyed tenderness could have existed in the moments after, with blood trickling down his mask and your half-lidded eyes staring into the holes of that stained parody, is cut blissfully short by the reminder of your thigh muscles, pinched and screaming in agony under his own perch. "Now get the fuck out of my house."

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/@yeehawmancer)  
> [pillowfort](http://pillowfort.social/tribunal)  
> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/yeehawmancer) (i have no clue how to use this)


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